Picture me.
The old-time circus strongman
in a skintight pink and black striped leotard.
Big I am, yet light on my feet
in thin black, ballet slipper-like high tops.
My calves, quads, glutes,
lats, pecs, and biceps rippling
as I pump my arms
and sprint down the railroad tracks
along the river.
I left my 1000-pound barbell behind,
spanning a ditch
to serve as a perch for the rowdy black-billed magpies
who congregate daily as dusk approaches.
I wear a ridiculous grin
and my heart is laughing.
The rails, sleepers, and ballasts blur beneath me
as I fly down the line.
I cannot wait to meet up with my trapeze artist friends
who know and demonstrate nightly
living proof
that gravity is dead.
Notes:
As of today I have stopped questioning the occasional urge I have to try poetry. And with that, I have discarded any concerns about “proper form.” I don’t worry about it, because, as Montana’s Poet Laureate, Chris La Tray, asserts to the school kids he visits, “Your text messages to one another are poetry.” I have been ingesting prose almost daily for a few months now as a devotional way to “fill up my cup.” Today I was sparked by an element from a dream and poems from my friend Michael Mark, in his collection, A Cannon, A Heart, and Now This…
And as usual there was inner musical background imagery bubbling up as inspiration. Enjoy this ear candy: Laura Veirs, Where Gravity is Dead [YouTube]; Cat Power, Living Proof [YouTube]; Iron and Wine, The Trapeze Swinger [YouTube]
May you, Dear Reader, enjoy a little something that fills up your cup and nurtures your spirit today. 
Photo by Miikka Luotio on Unsplash
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